


Twenty-four Years and Two Days

by daisynorbury



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bag End ships them, First Kiss, Fluff, Frodo's POV, M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisynorbury/pseuds/daisynorbury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gardens, Frodo cooks, they chat by the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> This sat in my files untouched for over a decade. For no particular reason, the time somehow just became right to touch up, flesh out, tweak, finish. The two stories are unrelated, but the idea for this one came to me after reading Cass's [The Herblore of Samwise Gamgee](http://www.libraryofmoria.com/a/viewstory.php?sid=3682&chapter=1) long ago. LOOONG ago.

"That's your fourth yawn, Samwise. I think some sleep would do you good."

It was late in the evening on an ordinary day in October of the year 1413 of the Shire Reckoning. Earlier that day, Sam Gamgee had taken advantage of the dry weather and started in on giving the garden at Bag End a thorough tidying. The autumn air had been still and cold, and frost clung where shrubs shadowed the grass. Sparrows came and went, hunting seeds. A jackdaw turned the stones under Mr. Frodo’s postbox until it found a meal, then hopped away with something black and wriggling in its bill. Sam had been clearing the berry canes past afternoon, and when dusk rounded the lip of a star-freckled night, Frodo had resorted to the hand-delivery of a steaming cup of tea to persuade him to stop working. 

"Sam, the sun's gone down. Leave the rest for another day." 

Sam regarded the brambles. He exhaled; a puff of white flashed from his mouth and was gone. "Mm. I expect you're right. I'm less than half done with these but tomorrow’ll do just as well. Oh, thanks." He tugged his leather gloves off, stuffed them under his arm, and accepted the cup from Frodo's outstretched hand. He wrapped his fingers around it to warm them. 

“I cooked too much, I’m afraid,” said Frodo. “Would you mind helping me eat some of it? Stay for supper?”

The corners of Sam’s mouth turned up just a bit. “Much obliged, Mr. Frodo.” 

A breeze picked up. It pushed Sam’s curls into his eyes and chilled Frodo through his shirt, since he had not stopped to dress properly before he came out with the tea. The giant maple on The Hill sighed as the wind tore gold and scarlet shreds from her fluttering skirts. Frodo rubbed his arms and turned, and Sam followed him inside.

  


Sam wiped his feet on the herringbone rug just inside the door, then stowed the clippers in the wooden toolbox in the corner. His hide gloves were tough as old boots, but still a blackberry thorn or two had managed to stick him, and he sucked a smarting finger as he hung up jacket and cap. Sage and pepper and savory scents floated in from the front kitchen. He padded eagerly down the hall to find a steaming roast weighing down Frodo’s kitchen table. Slices of garnet beetroot sat beside it, and a mound of creamy potatoes and pale, soft mushrooms. A loaf of dark brown bread, a smaller one of butter, and two bottles of Northfarthing cider stood gleaming on the sideboard. Frodo and Sam took their places across from one another on benches worn smooth by generations of bottoms, and for a good while, the only sounds in Bag End were the cheerful clink of cutlery on crockery and, now and again, perhaps, a very quiet, very polite, burp.

Eventually Sam looked up from his plate- sliver of meat still speared on his fork- and said: "I know you haven't the reputation for it sir, but I can’t think why; you’ve a fair hand in the kitchen.”

Frodo chuckled around a mouthful of mushroom and then swallowed it. "Thanks. I suppose it’s that I so seldom make the effort. Bilbo was- is- the real chef in the family. I don't remember my mother very well, but I remember helping her cook when I was small. Shortbread, in particular. Oh, that reminds me: Save room." Frodo indicated the oven with a tilt of his head. Sam grinned and returned to his task.

  
After supper Sam had laid a fire in the parlor while Frodo did the washing up. He’d still been poking at it, gazing into the flames, when Frodo brought in the rest of the cider and set it on the cabinet. Frodo plopped himself into the big leather chair in the corner- the one that had been Bilbo's favorite before he'd gone away. Twelve years ago. Twelve! He couldn't believe it. It seemed like they’d shared a pipe in this very room just yesterday. At one time that chair had been the color of pine needles and its bronze rivets shone like gold, but generations of use and love and smoke had burnished it dark. Sam set the fire poker back in its stand and turned to him. "You all right, sir?"

Frodo looked apologetic. "Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking."

Sam nodded. They had this exchange regularly. Nothing to worry about. 

Sam liked to be close to the fire, and sat right down on the carpet in front of it, despite Mr. Frodo’s comfortable sofa. The sofa- as he’d learned over the years- was ideal for an afternoon nap in midsummer when the dark parlor was cooler than the other rooms, or for waiting one’s turn at charades during one of Mr. Frodo’s Yuletide parties, or for curling up with a book on one of those days when he’d finished work early but Mr. Frodo was still in his study and Sam didn’t want to disturb him, and anyway what else did Sam have to do that afternoon that was so pressing? Mr. Frodo didn’t mind if Sam read his books. Far from it. 

But when the parlor fire was burning, that sofa didn’t have a patch on the bit of carpet across the room. So there he sat, and the logs crackled merrily as the two of them spoke together more of Frodo's mother, and shortbread, and Bilbo- both here at home and away with the elves (and the dwarves, way back when), and Sam's sisters, and the way the raspberries and blackberries will take over the garden if not occasionally given a stern talking-to. They’d finished the cider, and nibbled just enough of the seedcake that Frodo had baked earlier. And now they’d come to the part of the evening where they did nothing but watch the swirling flames, each thinking his own thoughts.

Frodo was glad the pink had returned to Sam’s cheeks after his cold afternoon in the garden. He was also glad of Sam just in general terms. The portraits of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took Baggins that hung over the mantel peered down at him. He hadn’t known them, but he liked to imagine they were kindly. Bilbo never talked about them much, but when he did he smiled and got a faraway look to him, like he wished he could pop down the road and just say good morning, one more time. Frodo wondered what they’d make of their odd, adopted great-nephew who spent half his time reading musty old storybooks and the other half trying to invent enough work to keep his gardener on the premises.

Sam, for his part, had grown sleepy. Mr. Frodo’s parlor carpet was done in pale green vines and blue and yellow flowers that twined ‘round and ‘round one another and spiraled out in mazes across the floor. He yawned. He’d drunk a bit more than he was used to, and his eyes had followed the spinning vines to where the carpet met Mr. Frodo’s chair, and his feet. Sam had thought those feet looked rather nice there, among the flowers, firelight glinting in their fur. He’d wondered if they were comfortable, and if they ever got cold at night, and if they did, how did Mr. Frodo warm them up again? And then he’d thought of his own feet, and the chilly walk he’d soon be taking back down Bagshot Row. He found himself bidding a rueful hello to the old, familiar regret that it was nearly time to leave Bag End for the night, and that was when he heard Frodo say,

"That's your fourth yawn, Samwise. I think some sleep would do you good."

 

Sam was quiet for a moment. "Aye, sir. I daresay." His stomach was full and he was warm and drowsy and perhaps not as careful as he might have been. "But if I go home now I have to stop chatting with you." 

Sam reddened after a moment, realizing he'd been thinking out loud, but covered quickly as he gathered himself, and stood, and declared, "But, like cutting the canes, tomorrow will do just as well.” He turned to face Frodo. “Thank you for the supper, sir."

Frodo gazed up at him from the chair with an odd expression. "I'm not... dismissing you, Sam. You're welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Sam smiled, headed for the entry, and pulled his coat from its peg. "That's very kind, sir, thanks, but my Gaffer'll be wonderin'.”

Frodo got up from Bilbo’s chair. The leather creaked and settled. Sam was shrugging on his coat and shaking out his cap as Frodo stepped across the room to join him by the door. _Oh, I don't know about that. I think your Gaffer's been suspicious of my intentions for years._ Sam's nervous manner led Frodo to wonder if perhaps something significant had been said. He wanted to find out more about it. "And if your Gaffer weren't wondering?"

Sam pulled on his cap and fished his gloves out of his coat pockets. He raised his eyes to Frodo’s. They regarded one another, neither quite knowing what to think.

Frodo continued. "I mean, if I needed you here for work early in the morning sometime, you could sleep here the night before." _Oh for pity’s sake, Frodo, really?_

Sam looked just a touch embarrassed. "Yes, sir." He paused. "Wednesday, maybe."

Frodo was caught off guard. "Do I need you early Wednesday?"

Sam watched his hands as he pulled his gloves over them slowly. "Well, I don't know.” He met Frodo’s eyes once more. “Do you?”

Frodo stared and swallowed. And stared a bit more. "I… Yes." The firelight cast shifting shadows on the hall curtains.

Sam nodded twice, but his expression did not change. "Right then. We’ll make an early start.”

Frodo felt a shade unreal. It took him a moment to gather his wits. "Yes. All right."

"Good. I'll tell Dad. See you tomorrow, sir." Sam touched his cap, turned, and strolled down the path. Frodo stared after him a few moments, bewildered, before shutting the front door with a click. The fire popped gently in the parlor.

Wednesday was the day after tomorrow. 


	2. Tuesday

Tuesday dawned as fair and blue as Monday had, but just after lunch a wind blew down from the north and kept The Hill company for the rest of the day. Sam appeared in the garden around the same time, and returned to work. Frodo considered cooking supper for them again, but in his current state he thought that sharp knives and hot stoves might not be the best idea. He shut himself away in his study with a stack of papers and tried to concentrate. 

_Turgon. Gondolin. Tuor and Idril. Good. Engrossing._ Not engrossing enough, though. His stomach was churning. That morning he’d done his best to avoid thinking about sleeping arrangements. There were several bedrooms in Bag End, and since Bilbo had gone, only one of them had an official occupant. There was one that Frodo thought of as Merry’s room, and one as Pippin’s (since they were the two relations who visited him most often (though he knew that the one usually ended up climbing in bed with the other if they both happened to be visiting at the same time)), but the rest just filled up more or less at random whenever he had a party and it was more sensible for his guests to stop over than stumble home in the dark. (Frodo threw brilliant parties.) So there was no one particular room that was an obvious choice to designate as Sam’s. Frodo supposed the Nursery (so called because it still housed Belladonna’s rocking chair) was closest to the bathroom, so that made sense, but the Blue Room had the nicest fireplace and was close to the back kitchen, of which Sam could avail himself whenever he liked. The Game Room hadn’t warranted the name in decades, but retained it because some enterprising ancestor had painted a dartboard on the wall and an oversized chessboard on the hardwood floor. It had all the comforts of a bedroom, but these days also doubled as a sort of giant linen cupboard, which meant that there were plenty of extra sheets and blankets and pillows to choose from, which was nice in the autumn and winter. Frodo had used the Nursery himself until his uncle went away and for some time after, but had moved into Bilbo’s old room several years ago now. It was right next to the study, had the most comfortable (and largest) bed, and had a window that looked out on the garden. Eventually it occurred to Frodo that he could just _ask_ Sam which room he wanted. The lad had known every nook and cellar of the place since he was small, and would surely already have favorites.

He had also resolved not to think about Sam himself. _See, the trouble with Sam…_

Frodo put his fountain pen down on the desk and got up to rummage in the map case. He knew Bilbo had some chart or other of the vales of Sirion but couldn’t remember exactly what. Of course, looking through the map case required moving the haphazard stacks of books and ink pots and mathoms that had found their way on top of it and hadn’t been needed for a while, which meant that Frodo had to find other places to put them. Honestly, why did he keep all this stuff, year after year? Possessions just become habit, you know? Still, he liked them. The trouble with Sam was that he always looked so blasted soft. Even when he was on a tear in the garden with those sharp metal hedge clippers, or dusty and dirty at the end of a hot summer day, or in that brown oilcloth jacket he wore when it rained. Just soft, soft like if in some dreamworld Frodo ever managed to touch him, there wouldn’t be a single part of him that wasn’t as warm and relaxed and pliant and _soft_ as a cat asleep in a sunbeam. Frodo peeled aside the maps, one by one. _Eriador, Mirkwood, Rohan, The Communities of Erebor, Hithlum, Doriath, Ossiriand, ah- here we are- Dorthonion. With Gondolin tucked safely away inside._ There was much to study in the map, but soon enough that too gave way. Because it wasn’t just the softness, was it? That was only one of the troubles with Sam. He had still been small when Frodo came to live at Bag End, and Frodo had watched him grow from shy little boy- a bit cowed by and anonymous within his large family- into a kind, curious, quick-witted young person with an easy, friendly manner and quite the pretties- _oh. *cough*_

Frodo looked down at the map under his hands and sighed. He placed the quill back in the ink pot, shook his head, and slipped into the kitchen, avoiding the window.

 _Let’s see... Radishes, cheese, apples. Soup- better let that simmer. Bit of bread left over._ And there was half a pork pie from lunch so not much cooking was required. As it was he nearly cut his thumb slicing the radishes. He allowed himself a glance out the window. Sam was bending over a shrub, pruning and tying. The sun was tipping over the horizon and gilt the crown of the row of oaks on the hill across the Water. Frodo also noticed a satchel at the edge of the lawn that Sam didn't usually carry. He opened a bottle of Old Winyards and set it on the table with the haphazard meal, then returned to the study and busied himself with his mother’s violin.

Frodo had agreed to lead the dance band at The Proudfeet’s anniversary party, so he was working his way through a stack of sheet music in an attempt to find enough appropriate pieces that he wouldn’t have to borrow an entire section of the Waymoot library. Of course, flipping through the family music files inevitably uncovered tunes he wanted to play (and hear) again just for the joy of them, and he found his mind wandering again. He couldn’t have said with any certainty when his... interest... in Sam began, or even what that interest was, exactly. They’d always been friends, from day one. And if day one was the day Frodo moved to Hobbiton, then even earlier, since he’d visited Bilbo several times before that and had known the Gamgees when he was still a teen and Sam only a very little boy. Frodo’s own coming-of-age birthday party was fodder for gossips even to this day, but not (he hoped) through any fault of his own. He was careful that no one know his uncomfortable secret. At the time Sam had still been basically a child. In the hobbit cultural imagination, anyway. It didn’t matter that physically he was nearly mature. Besides, there were plenty of neighbors and friends Frodo’s own age for him to be spending his time with. And he did, certainly. He’d never seen the virtue in asceticism. He loved intellectual pursuits just as much as the next person (well, maybe as much as the next elf; probably a bit more than the next hobbit), but couldn’t see why they should impinge on all his other kinds of pursuits. The fleshier kinds. He loved his friends and they loved him, and it was only right that they should enjoy one another’s company. But young Sam never really left his head. Not for long. Frodo didn’t “think of him that way”; he wouldn’t. He definitely didn’t. Not while Sam was still a tween. No. And he was never consciously aware of waiting for Sam to grow up.

But grow up he did, and finally Frodo let himself look- really look- for the first time.

  


There was a tap at the study door. "Mr. Frodo? Shall we have supper?"

Frodo jumped. "Oh! Coming.” He realized the violin had been sitting silent in his lap for some time. He set it gently on the map case, stepped over to the door, and joined Sam in the corridor. "Sorry, didn't hear you come in. Yes. Hope the soup's hot." 

It was, and even after they’d finished it, a bit of steam still clung to the insides of the hall windows. After supper was ended, Frodo laid a fire in the parlor while Sam did the washing up. Sam brought the bottle in with him and found Frodo in the leather chair, as usual.

Sam handed him a glassful and Frodo took it without comment. It occurred to Frodo that this kind of silent exchange was bred of years of easy familiarity. He took Sam's friendship for granted, he knew, and was frustrated with his apparent inability to be satisfied with it.

Frodo watched the firelight play behind the dark red of his glass. “How was today? Are you happy with the garden?”

“Very. I finished what I wanted to before the snow comes. It’ll sit tight for a while now."

"Splendid. Thank you so much."

Sam chose the sofa tonight. It faced Frodo’s chair, so it was easier to have a conversation with him. "Were you working on something interesting this morning, sir?"

 _Tried to. Failed._ "Mm. Sort of. Oh- I got a letter from Folco today. Says he and Fredegar are planning a trip to Michel Delving next month and were hoping to stop here for a visit on their way home."

"Ah, that'll be nice, eh? Haven't seen either of them since Yule."

"Indeed. I love Folco's stories about that rascal niece of his." They smiled into the fire and were quiet for a time. "Actually, I have been working on a translation that I'd like to tell you about. It's something I found folded up in one of the books Bilbo brought back from Rivendell. It's short, but hard going. Poetry. Peculiar word order. Some of it I can't make head nor tail of, but it's about Idril- you know, that Princess of Gondolin-" (Sam nodded) "-and an encounter she had with the eagles of the Crissaegrim."

"Remind me what those were, sir?"

"The mountains that hid Gondolin from the outside world."

"Right."

"From what I can make out, it seems she went out for a wander one morning and was missing for days."

Frodo went on, and Sam was reminded yet again of why he loved to listen to his stories. The fact that they were often about elves certainly didn't hurt, but it was really Frodo's animated, friendly style that captivated him. Elves were more… peopleish in Frodo's versions than they were in Bilbo's or anyone else's. Still foreign and magical, but somehow more familiar. More comfortable. A bit like Frodo himself, really. He was just as clever and wise and elegant as the elves he talked about, but while Sam could barely imagine actually trying to speak to an elf (he thought he’d have to stand on a chair, anyway, to manage not being beneath an elf’s notice), Frodo never made him feel small or insignificant. He cared what Sam thought, and listened to his opinions and advice (when he had them, that is), and on top of all that he was just downright funny. No one could make him laugh like Frodo did.

When Idril was safely back in her father's palace (though changed in heart, of course), Sam found himself gazing at the firelight playing across Frodo's open face, and thinking of his comment the previous evening. _"You're welcome to stay as long as you like." Really? What if I'd like to stay forever?_

Frodo swirled the wine in his glass. "Is Marigold feeling better?"

Sam was lifted out of his reverie. "Oh. Yes. Much. The fever's gone. Her throat's still sore, but she's up and about again."

"Good. Maybe I'll bring her a nice cold pudding for her throat." 

Frodo’s statement ended on a yawn and Sam smiled at him. "Butterscotch?"

The left side of Frodo's mouth curled into a half grin and his eyes narrowed. "This is Marigold's pudding, lad, not yours." 

Sam smiled wider. "Marigold loves butterscotch."

"I'm sure she does."

"Runs in the family." Frodo downed the rest of his wine in a gulp. He supposed he probably had red-wine-teeth. He was a touch dizzy. "Idril was the one that married the man Tuor, right?"

"Mhm."

"And their son was Earendil, who's now the evening star."

"Yes."

"Imagine that. Bein' a star." 

"Cold, I expect. Though I suppose the Silmaril is warm."

"Yeah, but more than that, he's all alone. Just him and the ship and the stars forever. I'm grateful, I suppose, in a... distant sort of way, but it does seem a terrible high price." Frodo turned to look at him and found him peering into his glass. "Were there hobbits in Middle Earth back then?"

Frodo looked thoughtful. "You know, I don't know. There aren't any in the stories, but there were men and dwarves, so there must have been hobbits, too." He yawned again.

Sam shifted his gaze back to the fire, and the pair sat in companionable silence for a time.

  


"That's your third yawn, Mr. Frodo. Some sleep might do you good."

Frodo studied his empty glass, then set it on the small table beside his chair. He felt very warm. This was a game and not a game and he was uncertain how to play. "Aye, Sam, I daresay." His eyes were locked on the hearth. "But if I go to bed now…”

Until that point, Sam- despite his hopes (probably because of them)- had been careful not to do or say anything unusual. He was still far from sure of what was rolling around inside Frodo’s complicated head, but now the silent second half of that sentence floated between them as tangible as touch. He waited, nervous.

Frodo rubbed his left palm against the arm of the chair. 

“Sam.” 

“Yeah?”

Frodo shook his head and looked at the carpet, casting about for a way to discuss this… pretense. “I... misled you.”

Sam titled his head to one side. “Did you?”

“I don’t… I don’t have any work for you early tomorrow.” Frodo could feel Sam’s eyes on him. Curiosity bit at him, but he didn’t dare look up. Everything he’d said up to now had been… Frodo felt he’d played along well enough, but with that last, honest comment, the game had ended and he was set adrift. Sam didn’t reply, but his eyes remained, tapping at Frodo with their invisible, insistent fingers. When Frodo couldn’t bear it any longer he turned and met Sam’s gaze, only to find that there was no look of confusion there, or even question. Sam faced him with a shy but open smile that seemed to say he understood. Maybe not all of it, but enough.

“Well. We can have a nice lie-in then, eh?”

Which didn’t help clear things up in the slightest. “Sam…”

“You wanted to know what I’d do if my gaffer weren’t wonderin’. Which he isn’t. And you said I could stay as long as I like. So.”

Frodo blinked. It couldn’t possibly be this easy. “So… here you are?”

Sam, still smiling, pushed himself off the sofa and went to sit right in front of the fire, its heat bathing his face and hands in warmth. “That’s right. I believe it was your suggestion that I stay the night.” 

Frodo watched Sam warm his toes at the fireplace. “And yours that it be tonight.”

Sam nodded slowly, his back to Frodo and the ocean of possibility between them. He swallowed and drew a few deep breaths, feeling the weight of two futures before him. Then he laid his right hand on the rug next to him and scooted a few inches to the left, which left an open space next to him before the fire. He patted it twice, slow but firm. “Would you like to come join me, Mr. Frodo?”

Ten seconds later, Frodo- mute with wonder- sat down in the space beside Sam. Sam raised a hand and laid it gently on his back. Frodo remained frozen to the spot, staring into the fire like he hoped to find an answer within it. Some way to…

Sam chuckled softly. Frodo tensed, and Sam was quick to reassure him with a squeeze at his shoulder. “No, you’re all right, I just remembered all of a sudden how you kissed me at my birthday party.”

“Everyone kisses the birthday boy when he comes of age.”

Sam snorted. “Not like _that_ they don’t. I put it down to the ale.” He let his hand slide from Frodo’s shoulder back down toward his waist.

“Well. I had had rather a lot.”

“Aye, but I didn’t think ‘til now how maybe you did it- drink a lot, I mean- purposeful so you could get away with it.”

Frodo blushed, but had finally come round to the notion that Sam wasn’t the least bit upset. Quite the contrary. Sam was teasing him. Frodo relaxed, and nestled his head into the waiting space between Sam’s jaw and shoulder. “Heavens, Sam, the imagination on you. Would I do such a thing?”

Sam’s eyes fell shut as Frodo leaned against him. “Well. I hope you won’t take it amiss if I say I wouldn’t put it past you.” 

Frodo moved his left hand a bit. So it just touched Sam’s foot. “It was more that I never would have have worked up the courage on my own. I think I was quite the gentleman, considering.”

Sam wrapped his right arm around Frodo’s middle so his hand came to rest at his hip. “To be honest, Mr. Frodo, I’ve been looking for excuses to get you snookered ever since.” At last Frodo turned and looked into his face, eyes widening, and Sam scooted closer still, so that there was no space left between them. “Wait. Considering what?”

He was very close, peering at Frodo with a spreading smile like he couldn’t believe his luck. Frodo supposed his own expression must be much the same. He swallowed. “Well, considering…” 

And then Frodo leaned forward until their foreheads bumped, and then their noses, and then pressed his mouth right into Sam’s without even telling him considering what.

  


Frodo had been right. Sam was the softest thing in the world.

  


“Mr. Frodo?”

Sam pulled his delicious mouth just far enough away to get the words out. His fingers were still bunched in the smooth linen of Frodo’s shirt, and Frodo discovered that he’d brought both hands up and was holding Sam’s face, brushing thumbs over his cheekbones.

“Yes?”

Sam cleared his throat. Frodo shifted his hands to Sam’s shoulders. “When I said 'stay', I meant... well. I hoped… I mean… that I wouldn’t have to sleep in the guest room."

Frodo blinked, and a slow, sleepy smile crept over his face. Sam raised a hand from Frodo’s shirt to his cheek. Frodo leaned into the touch and squeezed his other hand, his eyes never leaving Sam's. "I’m glad to hear it. I put fresh sheets down in mine and everything.”


End file.
